I don’t know that the world reserves a great deal of sympathy for touring musicians. The reigning narratives of life on the night-club circuit tend to be proud tales of debauchery, prurience, and the gleeful shirking of grown-person responsibility. Even in its less glamorous iterations, the road has an odd allure, a goony romance. Who wouldn’t rather be smoking endless cigarettes by a dumpster in some colorless parking lot than vacuuming the bath mat again?
